


Hangin' On The Telephone

by veronamay



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Community: blindfold_spn, Dirty Talk, M/M, Phone Sex, Plot What Plot, Stranger Sex, Unbeta'd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-13
Updated: 2010-07-13
Packaged: 2017-10-20 09:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From this prompt on <a href="http://blindfold-spn.livejournal.com">blindfold_spn</a>:  <i>Jared/Jensen - AU-ish, seduction, shy!Jared, masturbation, toys.  He was just a voice in the night - this sexy voice that Jared only got to hear the first time because of what must have been a miss dialed number (obviously, because he can't be the guy that his mystery caller actually wants to have scorching phone sex with).  It's gotten to the point now that just Mystery Man's breathing on the other end of the phone gets Jared hot. Everyday he expects his mystery caller to realize his mistake and never call again.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Hangin' On The Telephone

He's sitting alone in his apartment on Saturday night watching TV—sadly, situation normal for him—when it happens the first time. The phone rings, quiet and innocuous, and Jared doesn't even look away from the movie when he answers.

"'Lo?" he asks, taking a swig of beer.

"I hope you've got that plug in nice and tight, opening you up for me," says a dark, rough-soft voice on the other end. "Been thinking about it all fucking day."

Jared spits his mouthful of Pabst halfway across the room.

" _What_?"

There's a long moment of silence, and then a rueful-sounding, "Jesus fuck, sorry," and the buzz of a dial tone in his ear.

That's the first time.

* * *

The second time is five minutes later, when he's finished cleaning up the mess he made and his pulse has just gone back to normal. Jared's not an overly horny guy, but that voice went straight to his dick and he's still a little hard when the phone rings again.

He makes sure his beer is safely on the coffee table this time.

"Hello?"

"Look, I'm not a stalker or anything, I swear. I dialed the wrong number or something and I should've checked before I said anything, but y'know, half the fun of phone sex is the surprise sometimes and—"

Jared can't help it: he's embarrassed, but he laughs anyway, trying to stifle it with his free hand. Some of his amusement must come through, because the other guy lets his explanation trail off and then offers a quiet chuckle of his own.

"Uh. That probably wasn't what you were expecting out of your Saturday night, huh," he says. "Sorry if I, you know, interrupted anything."

Jared laughs again, shorter this time.

"No problem," he says. "You didn't interrupt anything but me watching Bruce Willis blow shit up for the millionth time. Pretty sure you're the one with the exciting night lined up, not me."

"Well shit, man, that's just sad. Get on out there and find something for me to interrupt next time. It's Saturday night. Go find yourself an orgasm, or I'll have to call back and give you one myself."

Jared's still reeling from the punch of lust to his gut when the guy hangs up again.

* * *

The third time is a week later, another solitary Saturday night. Tonight's choice of hot-dudes-blowing-shit-up is Will Smith, although Jared's having some trouble keeping his mind on the job. He keeps remembering last week and those two short but significant phone calls, wonders if the guy dialed the right number eventually and how the thing with the butt plug went. He shifts in his chair, his cock taking a healthy interest in the thought.

Jared was a late bloomer, getting almost all the way through college before he lost his virginity and then agonising over it for ages before finally admitting he was bi. He's kind of okay with it now, but his sexuality isn't something he feels comfortable talking about. Or acting on. Or acknowledging at all, really. It's not that he's cripplingly shy; it's just that he ... can't flirt. Or pick up anyone. Or let himself be picked up without stumbling over his own tongue, which usually leads to the other person losing interest. After a few dozen humiliating attempts to 'put himself out there', as his mother calls it, Jared ceded the field to people with actual social skills and retired gracefully to his apartment. If he's honest, he's more comfortable here anyway—he can be himself, he knows he's a sure thing if he wants sex, and he doesn't have to pay eight dollars for a beer.

None of that is in his mind when the phone trills softly from its perch on the couch. Jared nearly trips over his own feet getting to it, praying frantically that a) it's the guy from last week and b) he doesn't hang up.

"Hello?"

"Thought I told you to go get yourself a date," his mystery guy drawls. "How'd that work out for you?"

"Uh." Jared flops onto the couch and shoves a hand through his hair. "I'm kind of—retired. From dating. Forever."

"Did the Dating Police ban you for life or something?"

"Might as well have," Jared mutters. "I kind of suck at it. And there's only so many times I can get kicked in the teeth before I've had enough."

"Dude, you are too young to be that bitter." His erstwhile caller sighs down the line, the breathy sound of it making every hair on Jared's body stand on end. "Not to mention what the lack of sex is probably doing to your balls."

"I never said I wasn't having sex," Jared points out before he can stop himself. "Just—"

"Just?" the guy prompts, his voice suddenly deeper.

"—not with anyone else," Jared admits. He gets hot all over with the confession, as if it's some awful secret that he likes to jack off.

There's silence on the line for a minute, and then:

"Jesus, that's hot."

Jared gets hard, painfully, instantly, at the sound of the guy's voice dropping a full octave. He draws in a sharp breath and his hips jerk upward of their own accord, his dick twitching under his sweats.

"Uh," he manages, clearing his throat. "Wow. Okay."

"Sorry," Mystery Guy says hastily. "Not trying to freak you out. Just—that kind of pushed a button for me, there." He laughs awkwardly. "Shit, I'm being totally inappropriate again, aren't I?"

"Kinda," Jared agrees. He draws another breath, more deliberate this time, and steels himself to take a chance. "Um. I don't really mind, though."

"Really." The guy's voice turns silky all of a sudden, his drawl lengthening, the low timbre shivering all the way down Jared's spine. "Got a little kink you wanna share with the class, gorgeous? Getting off on a strange guy talking to you? And here I thought you were a good boy."

Jared shoves the side of his hand in his mouth and reaches blindly for his cock, pulling his sweats down to his thighs. It's so sensitive he shudders at the contact, a muffled noise echoing off the walls despite his best efforts. He hears Mystery Guy groan a little and it makes him even harder, knowing he's having that kind of effect on someone. Especially this guy, who sounds hotter than hell and can probably make Jared come without even trying.

"Does it help if I tell you I've never done this before?" he says, his voice uneven. His caller groans again, louder and longer this time, and Jared can hear the rustling of material in the background.

"If by 'help' you mean 'turn me on even more', then yeah, it helps," Mystery Guy tells him. His voice is so deep it almost doesn't carry through the phone line. Jared experiences a sudden, violent desire to hear it up close and in person, whispering filthy things into his ear. "Christ, this is not what I had mind when I called you, I swear."

"Damn," Jared whispers, face on fire, squeezing his cock hard. "I've been thinking about it all week."

"Oh, fuck you. Jesus."

Mystery Guy is definitely jerking off now; Jared can hear the wet slapping sounds echoing his own movements, and it's seriously revving his engine. He shoves his sweatpants down to his knees and spreads his thighs wider, jerking off faster as his excitement rises. His dick is ultra-responsive, every stroke feeling nine times better than usual, forcing him to voice his pleasure far more than he usually does. Mystery Guy likes that; his moans and curses are loud in Jared's ear, everything serving to push him faster toward his goal. This is the most action Jared's had in months, but even if he'd gotten laid yesterday he'd still be wild right now—this guy is just pure sex, voice melting honey-smooth and seductive over the line, slipping through all of Jared's inhibitions as if they don't exist.

"You gonna blow soon? I'm so close, gonna shoot all over the place. Fuck." Mystery Guy's losing it, his words losing their defined edge, slurring into something softer and darker that wind themselves around Jared's nerve endings and tugs. "Holy shit, haven't ... ngggh, haven't gone off this fast since high school, _God_ —"

Jared's eyes roll back a little when he comes, his ass coming off the couch, legs straining to hold his weight. He pretty much wets himself down from navel to thigh and falls back to earth with a thump. He's kind of pissed they came at the same time; he wanted to hear Mystery Guy getting off, because he bets it sounded orgasmic all on its own.

They pant at each other silently for a minute or two, brains offline until the blood gets back upstairs. Jared stares at the ceiling and thinks about nothing in particular, drifting in a pleasant post-coital haze until Mystery Guy speaks again.

"So, uh," he says, and yeah, he sounds completely fucked out. Jared's dick twitches feebly. "That was kind of awesome."

"Yup." Jared grins stupidly at the TV, where Will Smith is dragging an alien across the desert. "Pretty much made my weekend."

"Right. So." Mystery Guy clears his throat, pauses, then says in a cautious tone, "Maybe I'll ... call again sometime."

"That—um, _yeah_ ," Jared says, his pulse picking up again. "Seriously. Any fucking time you like."

"Okay."

"Okay."

"Good."

"Right."

 _Tomorrow_? Jared wants to ask, but he's not that confident. So he just says good night when Mystery Guy does, and puts the phone down. Then he stares at it for a good twenty minutes, wondering what the fuck just happened.

* * *

The fourth, fifth and sixth times are pretty much a case of lather, rinse, repeat. Every time the phone rings at night, Jared jumps half a foot. Every time it's Mystery Guy, he comes so hard he can't think properly afterward. It's pretty much the answer to all his problems. Jared's only worry is that one night he'll be waiting and the phone won't ring.

* * *

"Gonna fuck yourself on your fingers tonight?"

Jared takes a deep, shaky breath and lets it out on a quiet moan. He's already halfway to coming just from listening to that fucking sinful voice. It's been weeks and he can't get enough of this.

"Gonna," he agrees, sliding down a little further in bed, spreading his legs wider. They usually start off slower, ease into it, but tonight it's been zero to sixty in nothing flat and Jared is fucking loving it. "God, this is so hot. Can't believe it."

Mystery Guy—they haven't exchanged names—lets out a deep, throaty laugh that fizzes darkly along Jared's nerve endings. That voice is lethal to his self-control. He's addicted, totally at this guy's beck and call on a nightly basis, on tenterhooks every time waiting for the phone to ring and these 'wrong number' conversations to begin. It's like something out of Penthouse: " _The first time was just a mistake, a hot, sexy, lucky mistake ... I never thought my mystery caller would ever contact me again ..._ " Jared would laugh, but he's usually too busy gasping for breath or muffling his screams. Whoever Mystery Guy is, he has a voice like whiskey-drenched velvet and an infinite repertoire of kinky sex acts that are slowly driving Jared insane.

"Just one finger," Mystery Guy tells him. "Slide it in nice and slow. Did you lube up, get yourself all wet?"

"Yes." Jared's face is burning as he obeys the instruction, holding back from slamming in as many fingers as will fit. "It's all ... squelchy. I'm real slippery inside."

"Fuck. Fuck, that's good." He hears Mystery Guy breathing a little faster, and his voice gets that raspy edge Jared loves. "I bet you're smooth as fucking silk in there. Love to get my fingers inside you, feel it for myself."

Mystery Guy likes to hear him describe how it feels, even though Jared gets horribly embarrassed. Jared wonders if that's part of the fun, wonders what would happen if he stopped talking about what he's doing, then decides he's not embarrassed enough to risk it. He's shy, but he's not stupid—and besides, the more they do this the less he cares about how he sounds, because Mystery Guy really seems to get off on it and _that_ is downright scorching.

He slides his finger in and out a few times, getting used to it. He's still new to ass play, and it took him a while to admit that he likes it. Now he's all too eager, although he thinks he'll never be as verbal about his enjoyment as his partner is. That's okay; Jared's pretty sure he could come from Mystery Guy's voice alone. Maybe they'll try that sometime, if this thing they've got keeps going.

"Talk to me, handsome," Mystery Guy says, pulling Jared back to the here and now. "Tell me what it's like. Are you gonna keep your fingers in there, try to come that way? Or is it a jerk-off kinda night? I bet you're hard as a fucking steel rod right now. Bet you'd pound any ass I put in front of you."

"J-Jesus," Jared stammers. He arches his back and lifts his hips off the bed, rubbing hard against his prostate. "Gonna—gonna come like this, fuck. Feels so fucking dirty. I don't ... nobody knows I do this." He bites his lip, breathing hard now. "Nobody would believe it, probably. I'm not exactly popular."

"Believe me, gorgeous, it is their fucking loss," Mystery Guy drawls, low and heated. "You've got no idea how fucking sexy you sound, do you? You're all quiet and shy until we get going, and then you turn into this fucking wet dream coming straight down the phone line. It's the hottest thing I've ever done—and I've done a lot of wild shit in my time."

Jared flushes all over, sweat popping out in his pits and the vee of his hips, the small of his back. The idea that Mystery Guy finds this—him—such a turn-on is _unbelievable_ , but there's too much raw want in his voice for Jared to doubt it. It gives him a little more confidence, enough to switch the call to handsfree and put the phone on the nightstand so he's got a little more freedom to move.

"Did you just put me on speaker?"

"Uh-huh." Jared puts a pillow under his hips and grins blindly at the ceiling. "Changed my mind. Gonna jerk off with my fingers in my ass while you talk to me. Your fucking voice, Jesus, I fucking love it." He arches again, presses his head into the mattress. "I dream about it sometimes. Wake up hard in the middle of the night and jerk off again."

"Oh my God, you're fucking killing me here." Mystery Guy's voice is guttural now, sounding ripped to shreds. Jared shudders and slides another finger in his ass. "'M gonna call you at two a.m. sometime, see if I get lucky. It'd be so good to listen to you all sleepy, getting yourself off twice for me."

"Oh, fuck yes," Jared breathes. "Yeah, that'd be, oh God—" and just like that he's coming, without warning, far sooner than he wants to. He lets out a surprised cry and lets his hips stutter through it, slumping back on the bed when he's done. He lies there and tries to get his breath back, idly rubbing splatters of come into his belly.

Mystery Guy is panting harshly down the line; Jared can hear the faint _slapslap_ of skin on skin and it turns him on all over again. He rolls over to face the phone and lets out a satisfied little growl, straining to hear more.

"So fucking hot, listening to you," he murmurs, stretching lazily. "Love hearing it."

Another wave of heat rolls over him when Mystery Guy moans, those sinful sounds becoming louder, and Jared wonders at his own audacity. He'd never be able to do this in a million years in person, but the anonymity of the phone lets him cast off his usual reclusive, socially awkward self to let out the ... the _sex fiend_ underneath. With every day that passes, he likes it more and more.

* * *

Sometimes when Mystery Guy calls, he doesn't say anything at all. Jared is curious about those times: what keeps Mystery Guy from speaking? Is he with someone, or in public, or what? The thought that he might be putting on a private show for the guy while he's standing in line at Dairy Queen or in the middle of a family dinner—it should feel wrong, should make him feel used, but Jared gets off just as hard those times as any other. Sometimes he comes harder, because the sound of Mystery Guy's breathing getting all laboured and quick presses every button he's got. He usually stays quiet during those calls too, letting the sounds of his body speak for him, and it forges a connection he can't explain in words.

At least, Jared thinks so; he has no idea whether Mystery Guy actually means all the things he says when they're getting off. Jared learned the hard way that people say all sorts of shit they don't mean in bed. And while they're not exactly _in bed_ together, the same principle applies. Every morning he wakes up trying not to anticipate the night ahead, and every night it's a massive rush of relief when the phone rings and their filthy conversations continue.

A couple of times he's been out when Mystery Guy called, and it's probably the only instance in history where someone's come home to a wordless message of heavy breathing on their voicemail and been _reassured_ instead of creeped out. Jared sometimes wonders if he _should_ be creeped out, but all Mystery Guy seems to want is for them to get off together in filthy and amazing ways, and Jared is more than fine with that.

* * *

All good things must come to an end. Jared knows this—it's a saying for a reason, after all—but he isn't expecting it to happen like this.

He's standing in line at Starbucks, texting his brother and jingling the change in his pocket as he moves slowly closer to the counter. Jeff's garbled textspeak takes some deciphering, so Jared doesn't spare any attention for his surroundings except to shuffle when the person in front of him does. He's second from the front when something in the background noise catches his attention, and he looks up from his phone, blinking.

"One tall half-caf skim mocha coming right up," he hears, and holy shit, that's Mystery Guy. Jared would know that voice anywhere; he hears it in his sleep, for fuck's sake. He has no time to react before he's at the head of the line and he's facing the guy, and—

Holy shit, he's fucking gorgeous. Tall and green-eyed and pale-skinned and a mouth that Jared wants to spend a week kissing. He stares at the guy— _Jensen_ , his nametag says—for a good ten seconds before someone behind him clears her throat. Loudly.

"Can I take your order?" Jensen is looking at him expectantly, a little curiously. Jared flushes beet red and tries to speak, getting even more embarrassed when the words won't come.

"M-macchiato," he spits out eventually. "Caramel. Venti. Please."

At the word 'please', Jensen's whole body twitches and his gaze snaps to meet Jared's. Jared shrugs a little and dips his head in a quick nod, the most he can bring himself to do out in the open like this. Jensen stares at him for what feels like a year, then turns away to ring up his order without saying a word. Jared stuffs his card back into his wallet and shifts to the end of the counter, feeling like a fool.

So, that's it then. The fantasy is shattered, and his Mystery Guy is no longer a mystery. It doesn't matter to Jared—Jensen could be forty-two and going bald and he'd still have the hottest voice he's ever heard—but evidently the feeling isn't mutual. Jared waits for his order with slumped shoulders and his head down, not wanting to chance another look.

His coffee appears in front of him, the tall cup giving him something to focus on. Jared mumbles a thank-you and turns to leave, then stops when Jensen calls out, "Hey."

Jared looks over his shoulder. Jensen is looking at him, a little smile on his face that makes Jared's toes curl in his boots. He nods at the cup in Jared's hand and raises his hand to his ear, thumb and pinky extended.

Jared turns the cup around and sees a phone number written on the side, with the words "call me" scribbled beneath.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hangin' On the Telephone (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6613444) by [juice817](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juice817/pseuds/juice817)




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